


Your Childhood Heroes

by coffeeandoranges



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Fluff and Crack, I'm Sorry, Jon Snow knows nothing, M/M, Originally posted on Tumblr at 4 AM, Tyrion is a little shit, Uses book characterization over show characterization, pretty much crack
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-31
Updated: 2014-02-02
Packaged: 2018-01-10 17:59:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,148
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1162797
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coffeeandoranges/pseuds/coffeeandoranges
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Don't be nice to lonely 14-year-old bastards, because they will never, ever forget it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Winterfell is a strange, bitter gift.

It was never intended for him, but now it is all he has.

As a child he never felt quite a part of Winterfell—its proud walls whispering, _you do not belong here_ —but now that those same walls are crumbling, he feels a part of them now. They are broken too. And he is a Stark, no matter what anyone says, and Robb was his brother, and he is Lyanna’s son if he couldn’t be Ned’s.

Jon enjoys the company of ghosts.

Everyone he has lost along the way-- except for Samwell Tarly, who is buried in an unmarked grave in Skagos-- is here in Winterfell, where he can visit them. He often does so, he goes to see his beautiful dead mother, and his brother, and the only father he has ever known.

When he talks to Ned he either cries or rages, never anything in between. Sometimes he is angry with his father for withholding the truth.

But sometimes he understands. He wonders if Ned saw any of himself in Jon, maybe more than in any of the other Stark children, in this child who was not actually his.

Or maybe all Ned ever saw was Lyanna.

When he visits Lyanna’s tomb, unlike Ned’s, he never has much to say.

But somehow a certain few words come, unbidden. “I miss you,” he says, to the tomb of this woman he has never met.

When he visits Robb’s tomb he can’t find anything to say at all. He just thinks to himself: _the body inside that tomb will always be fifteen_.

 

\--

When court comes North—when Dany comes North—Jon loses that precious solitude at Winterfell. Suddenly there are armies and men and barracks stationed everywhere.

And worst of all, there is the court, a half-day’s ride away, and at court, with its ladies in their new-sewn gowns, and their lavish feasts, he often feels like the only one aware there is a war going on.

The only good thing about court moving North to Winterfort is that it makes Sansa happy again. Sansa has been restless in the ruins of Winterfell—the place holds ghosts for her as well—and longs for Margaery. Jon personally can’t stand the Queen of Thorns, but he is happy his sister has found happiness, and Sansa is noticeably happier when Margaery is within a day’s ride from Winterfell. So Jon learns to deal with her for his sister’s sake.

Personally, Jon could happily burn Winterfort to the ground, between the Queen’s frequent, somewhat unwelcome advances (which he feels he can never refuse) and the endless gossip that surrounds him now that they all know he is Rhaegar’s son.

One night at Winterfort the courtiers are all eulogizing the fallen prince, and they glance shyly at Jon all the while, as if they are paying him a compliment.

“If Prince Rhaegar was so wonderful,” says Jon, loudly. “Why did every house in the Seven Kingdoms unite against him?”

And the ladies hide awkward glances behind their hands because everyone is wondering why Rhaegar’s own son does not defend him.

But Jon has never met Rhaegar. The Targaryen prince never sat down to dinner with him, never taught him to shoot an arrow.

That was someone else.

_Ned was my father._

In bed that night with Dany, he studies her as she sleeps beside him. Her beautiful body, with its sweet round breasts and curved hips, may as well be sculpted out of marble. She is perfect.

And then he remembers she is his aunt, and he feels sick.

No matter how many times Dany tells him this is alright, what they are doing, Jon knows it is not. He does not belong here.

_What would you say, Father? What would you say if you knew?_

But Dany is lonely, and truthfully, so is he.

 

\--

 

At one of those endless court dinners one night, he hears a burst of familiar, long-forgotten laughter, like something out of another life.

Before he looks up, he already knows whom that laughter belongs to. But he feels a jolt of pleasure anyway when he sees him—for there, plain as daylight, is the Imp of House Lannister, sitting at Daenerys’s table and drinking wine.

He looks up when Jon approaches them, as does Daenerys, and Jon knows immediately from the chilliness in her gaze that despite Tyrion’s laughter, this was a serious conversation he had just interrupted.

“Well-met, Jon Snow,” says Tyrion, studying Jon with his mismatched eyes. “It’s been quite some time.”

And just like that, Jon feels fourteen again, with the way those eyes seem to look right through him.

Indeed, Jon is almost overwhelmed by the pair of them—Daenerys sitting there, so composed and pristine, in all her otherworldly beauty, and Tyrion, looking at him like he can guess all Jon’s secrets in a single glance. They are almost too much to take in at once.

He wonders if Tyrion knows he’s sleeping with the Dragon Queen.

“I have heard such tales of you,” Tyrion says. “Glad to find out they are true after all. Here I was worried you were frozen in a snow drift somewhere.”

“I’m here, and haven’t frozen yet.”

“Is that so? I have heard otherwise.”

Of course, Tyrion must have heard about when Jon was shot through with arrows. That time the ice had saved him.

“That was one time.”

“You seem no worse for the wear,” says Tyrion, mildly. “Although you are young yet. The occupation you’ve chosen does include these hazards from time to time.”

Jon chooses not to point out the tales he has heard about Tyrion, mostly from Sansa. Truthfully, what he’d heard had changed Jon’s perception of the Imp somewhat. There was little love lost between his sister and the man she was forced to marry, it seemed.

In person as well, Tyrion did seem different from the man who’d reached out to him all those years ago in Winterfell. Back then the Imp had been brimming with life, quick to make a jest or raise a toast, and yet patient and kind enough to talk to a child. With a start, Jon remembers this is the man he once asked to make a saddle for Bran.

But looking at him now, Jon wonders if that man is gone. There is little kindness in those eyes now, and the laughter he’d heard earlier rang brittle and false.

“Excuse me,” says Jon. “I seem to have been interrupting something.”

He catches the look in Dany’s eyes— _no, don’t go_ —but turns his back anyway.

 

\--

 

Dany comes to his bedchamber that night, as always. Rather, she gets there before he does, and is waiting for him when he arrives. She is sitting naked on the edge of the bed, her long hair wet from the bath and dripping, leaving long trails down her breasts.

And she looks so enticing Jon can’t help but take her then and there.

She turns over the moment he is finished—she always hates when he wants to be on top—but now that he has satisfied his lust, Jon’s mind is too far away to care.

He is still dwelling over what happened at dinner, and wondering why it causes a strange pang in his chest when he thinks back to it.

“Dany,” he asks her suddenly. “What did you and Tyrion talk about at dinner?”

“What? Oh. Nothing really, affairs of the realm.” Dany sounds half-asleep beside him.

“How long has he been at court?”

“Sent for him a few moon turns ago.”

“Where was he before?”

“The West. I allowed him Casterly Rock as his seat,” says Dany. “Why all the questions?”

Jon falls silent. He can’t explain why it is so important for him, to know what Tyrion has been doing all this time.

“No reason,” he says at last.

At that, Dany turns and faces him, a curious expression on her face.

“You knew each other before,” she says. It is not a question, but Jon nods anyway.

“You seemed surprised to see him. Surely you knew he is Hand?”

“Of course I knew. It was not that which surprised me,” Jon says.

“Then what is it?”

Jon considers, studying the banner on the wall opposite the bed, the three-headed dragon. A gift from Dany.

“I don’t know,” he says honestly. “He is changed from when I knew him as a boy.”

“He has served me faithfully,” Dany says, frowning. “But I do not ever forget what he is.”

“What is that, though? What is he?”

Dany pauses.

“A monster,” she says, after a moment. “Drunk and full of spite. But clever and ruthless, and useful in his way.”

She pulls herself closer to Jon.

“Do not worry about me,” she says. “Men like him were everywhere in Essos, and I have survived them all.”

But it is not Dany Jon is worried about.

 

\--

 

From then on, Dany’s words echo in Jon’s mind every time he sees Tyrion. He is horrified to find there is some truth in it—in the weeks that follow, he does not see Tyrion without a wine glass in his hand, not even once.

_Drunk and full of spite._

There is also the matter of the tale Sansa told Jon a few years ago, after they were reunited and were sharing stories of their lives since Winterfell. Then, Sansa had  
claimed Tyrion killed his own father in King’s Landing, and also the woman he was sleeping with, for good measure. All before he fled to Essos to escape justice.

_Clever and ruthless._

Sansa is hardly alone in her low opinion of him. Tyrion is not well-liked. Some of Sansa’s court friends, like Margaery, even hint that he should be executed for his crimes. They say the only reason the Imp is alive at all is because of Daenerys, and it is known she only keeps him around for his knack of finding gold— always in odd nooks and crannies of the realm, always right when it is needed most. Yet not even Margaery dares oppose him, since Tyrion has a firm grasp on all the realm’s whisperers too.

Indeed, in the court of Daenerys I, Tyrion Lannister plays both Varys and Littlefinger, once the realm’s most dangerous men, both hated and feared.

_A monster._

 

\--

 

“What do you think of it, Jon Snow?”

This is the question Tyrion uses to trap Jon into a conversation one night.

“What do I think of what?”

Jon is sitting at dinner with Dany—this is how they have begun to acknowledge their relationship in public—and the Imp is there tonight, choosing to grace them all with his presence instead of drinking and working alone in his room as Dany tells Jon he is wont to do.

“This brave new world we are making,” says Tyrion then, waspishly, since Jon has not been listening.

“I don’t follow.”

“If Meereen declares for Her Grace, we shall be eight kingdoms instead of seven, and split across an ocean. What do you think of that?”

Jon looks to Dany, not entirely sure of the correct answer here.

“It could present some challenges,” Jon says.

“Aha! An honest man,” says Tyrion, before turning to Dany. “You would do well to keep him around.”

At that, Dany’s cheeks turn pink, which has an interesting effect on a face that is normally so implacable.

Seeing this occur, Tyrion cocks his head to the side.

“My, my, isn’t that interesting,” he says softly, and as he looks from Dany to Jon, and back again, Jon feels a surge of icy terror.

But Tyrion only takes a long sip of wine, and laughs.

“I suppose congratulations are in order, although—help me—I’m a little unclear what for. You must tell me. Is there a marriage proposal in the offering? Bastards on the way? Hands need to know these things, you know…”

“Tyrion,” says Dany. “Enough.”

To his credit, Tyrion does look abashed.

“I apologize, Your Grace,” he says. “Love is something I know little of, perhaps that is why I like to make a jest of it. Enjoy your dinner.”

He gets up and leaves quite abruptly.

After that, Jon and Dany can do nothing else but resume dinner, Dany as nonchalant as ever, but Jon can barely swallow his food.

“Was that wise?” Jon finally asks, to break the silence as much as anything. “Admitting it to him?”

Dany shrugs, but seems annoyed Jon has even asked the question.

“We sit together in our cups every night, Jon,” she says. “Everyone knows. And I am Queen. He can do nothing to us.”

Jon is not sure how he feels about “everyone” knowing about him and Daenerys.

He thinks maybe he is not ready to deal with the consequences of that just yet.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is ridiculous and I freely admit it. Enjoy!

That night Jon chases Tyrion down outside of the Imp’s chambers. He is not sure why, but for some reason he feels the need to explain himself, to talk to Tyrion about him and Daenerys, to get to him before Daenerys does.

It is a bitterly cold night, and icy. In fact Jon can barely get up the stairs, as slick as the steps are to Winterfort’s bedchamber towers.

When he comes to the first landing, Jon sees a shadow, that on second thought looks like a small body, sprawled out on the ice.

Apparently Tyrion couldn’t get up the stairs either.

Jon rushes to his side, turning him over, looking for cuts or wounds. Sure enough, the Imp is bleeding, and possibly unconscious. The right side of his face and neck are bloodied.

 “Seven hells,” he hisses.

“Is it that bad?” says Tyrion, who is rather less unconscious than Jon had thought.

“You’re bleeding.”

 “That does happen sometimes,” the Imp says. His voice is soft, his eyes unfocused.  “If you’re lucky enough, I might die. Margaery Tyrell would reward you well, for one.”

“You’re not going to die.”

 “It’s quite alright if I do. Did they ever tell you my father died on a privy?”

“What?”

Jon cannot tell where the bleeding is coming from. It could be either his neck or his head, and neither one bodes well.

“It’s true. I shot him with a crossbow, and then he took a shit.”

Jon pauses, and stares.

“You are very drunk, Imp.”

 “Good one,” Tyrion says, smiling. His smile trembles a bit. “Heard that one before. But I never thought to hear it from you. ”

Jon can’t think of a reply to that. He has little attention to spare for this conversation to begin with, since he is busy considering the suddenly very real possibility Tyrion Lannister could die, right here on this ice patch.

Because Jon can’t stop the bleeding; he can’t even find it in this light.

“You’re coming with me,” he says, making a decision.

“What are you doing?” Tyrion says sharply, as Jon moves toward him.

In reply, Jon picks up Tyrion and throws him over his back, ignoring his noises of protest.

“Where are you taking me?”

“My chambers.”

“Oh, _excellent_ ,” comes the reply from somewhere behind Jon’s head. “Perhaps our good Queen will be there waiting for you… hopefully wearing very little.”

Jon briefly considers dropping the Imp on his head.

“You should talk less than you do,” he says.

“Ah, but who would entertain everyone? I can hardly be a serious dwarf, nobody likes them.”

“Nobody likes you anyway,” says Jon, regretting the words almost as soon as he says them.

But Tyrion’s sharp tongue has a way of making Jon feel dim-witted and slow, and for a moment he has to admit it does feel good to serve the Imp his own dish.

Jon hears a sharp intake of breath behind him as Tyrion accepts the insult.

“You’re right, of course.” Tyrion’s reply comes slowly, and for once without mockery. “I assure you, Jon Snow, I am as amazed by my continued existence as everyone else is.”

Right then Jon reaches the door to his own chambers, and opens it with one hand, his other still holding Tyrion. He checks the bed to see that it is empty. Mercifully, Dany is not there, clothed or unclothed.

He carries Tyrion to the bed and sets him down, carefully.

But not carefully enough—Tyrion’s blood is soon shining red on Jon’s cloak.

But that is the least of Jon’s worries. The Imp does not look good, his face is pale as a sheet, his hair is mussed and coated with blood, his pupils have grown large in his eyes.

“What happened to you?”

“Do you mean generally? Or specifically?”

Jon dips his cloak in a bowl of water and begins daubing at Tyrion’s face.

“Both,” Jon says without thinking.

“Mmm,” Tyrion murmurs, swaying a bit. “That is quite the question, isn’t it.”

“This wouldn’t have happened if you hadn’t drunk so much.”

“Right again, Jon Snow. You are cleverer than anyone gives you credit for.”

“I’m not really that clever.”

“I beg to differ. You’re fighting a war, are you not?”

Jon meets Tyrion’s unfocused eyes then, and that same strange feeling overtakes him as before, when he saw Tyrion at the feast a few weeks before: this man can see right through him.

“And bedding a queen?” Tyrion prompts him when he doesn’t respond.

Jon winces.

“I’d say you’re quite clever indeed.  You’re winning the game.”

“But you’re the Hand,” Jon argues back. “Aren’t you winning as well, then?”

“I don’t know. Some might say so. But I wouldn’t.”

“Why not?”

“Lord Snow. Just look at me.”

“I am looking.”

“Then look harder.”

Tyrion smiles then, a twisted, horrible smile that reminds Jon more of a grimace.

“Six years ago I got drunk in Essos, and I haven’t been sober for one day since.”

There is nothing Jon can think of to say to that.

“I’m sorry,” he says finally.

“Don’t be sorry,” says Tyrion. “Just be the clever boy I know you are, and leave me alone.”

Those last three words are delivered in a snarl, made all the more threatening by the blood on his face.

For a moment, Jon considers obeying him. It would be so easy to walk out the door, and leave Tyrion to himself.

But he can’t walk out. For one thing, this is his own room.

For another—

“I can’t,” he says.

“Why not?”

“Because you didn’t leave me alone,” Jon says. “Do you remember?”

“Oh, for the love of—“

“You didn’t leave me alone,” Jon insists.

“You have no idea what you’re doing right now.”

“I think I found where you’re bleeding, actually.”

“You know what I mean.”

As he dresses the wound on Tyrion’s chin, Jon’s hands are shaking. With what, he cannot say, but he suspects it is something like anger that does this to him— anger or perhaps sadness, that the man he met as a child has turned into… this.

“I looked up to you,” Jon says, finally.

“Sorry to disappoint you,” Tyrion says, in a tone cold as the ice outside. “I was much younger then, and naïve, and if I recall correctly, all of my family members were still living.”

Jon’s breath catches in his throat. “There are many of us who can say the same.”

Tyrion closes his eyes.

“Well, you’re a better man than me.”

The look of utter defeat that passes over Tyrion’s features right then, is so pure and clear, agonizing in its honesty, that in that moment, Jon would do anything—anything at all—to wipe it off his face forever.

Jon is not even consciously aware of moving forward to kiss him. But suddenly his hand is in Tyrion’s hair, his lips pressed to Tyrion’s mouth, before he even realizes what he is doing. And it feels so good, all of it, right down to the bitter tang of blood and wine on the other man’s lips.

Opposite him, Tyrion lets out a breath and pulls away.

“That was… unexpected.”

The only thing Jon feels now is a sort of dim, mounting horror as he realizes what he’s just done.

“I’m sorry,” he says, the two words coming out as one, in a rush. _Imsorry._ “I should go.”

“Where? This is your bedchamber,” Tyrion observes.

“And please, spare me the apology,” he adds. “That was much too interesting to apologize for. You should never apologize for doing anything, as long as it is interesting enough.”

For a moment their eyes meet, and Jon wonders if it is going to happen again.

But Tyrion looks away, his unfocused eyes searching for the door.

“I think it would be best if I leave,” he says.  “Considering these are your rooms.”

“You can’t walk all the way back. You’re hurt.”

“I can hardly stay here, can I?”

 Now Jon fears that he has hurt Tyrion somehow, and badly. Sitting there on the bed in front of Jon, he looks so small that Jon feels ashamed of himself.

“You’re right,” he says. “I suppose you can’t.”

It is all Jon can do to offer Tyrion his shoulder to hoist himself off the bed.

Both feet now on the floor, Tyrion turns as if to leave, only he does not move, only stands there as though rooted to the spot.

“Actually,” Tyrion says, in the same tone he would use to make an announcement in court. “I’m staying here. It’s quite cold out there, and, unlike you, I have no deep-seated desire to freeze to death in a snow drift.”

“That’s fine,” says Jon.

Very cautiously, as if trying to avoiding startling a wild animal, each approaches the bed and lays down on it. At first they are both looking up, each avoiding the other’s eyes, but soon Tyrion turns to face Jon.

Jon determinedly studies the ceiling.

“Oh, stop,” Tyrion says. “You can look at me, you know.”

So Jon turns to face Tyrion. Now their faces are very close again, their breath mingling in the cold air. All around Jon there is the sour smell of wine.

At this distance, too, Jon is reminded that Tyrion does not have much a nose to speak of, that there is an enormous scar across his face, that his forehead bulges horribly on one side.

But for all that, Jon cannot help it. He reaches out to him.

Tyrion flinches.

But Jon only touches Tyrion’s hair, very lightly.

The dwarf reacts as if he has been spared a blow. A small, crooked smile appears on his face, a slight mistiness in his eyes—a look of wonder.

And then Tyrion buries his face in Jon’s chest, and eventually, this is how they fall asleep, with Tyrion pressed into Jon, and Jon’s hand in Tyrion’s hair. 

 

\--

 

When he wakes up the next morning, Jon feels an awareness that he is holding someone in his arms and at first he thinks it is Daenerys.

But it feels wrong, somehow: slightly too small, far less shapely…

He and Tyrion both open their eyes at the same time, and stare at each other, wearing what are surely identical expressions of horror, as if they are each waking up inches away from the jaws of a wild, hungry beast.

They disintangle themselves, Jon’s cheeks burning with shame the entire time, Tyrion unable to meet his eyes.

Then—to Jon’s incredible dismay—he realizes his staff is hard as stone beneath his breeches.

Quickly turning away before Tyrion can see, he nonetheless can’t miss the undercurrent of menace in Tyrion’s voice as the other man says, finally:

“I could ruin you with this, you know.”

And with that, Jon feels the same surge of terror that gripped him the night before, when Tyrion had looked from Jon to Daenerys, and back again.

Has he forgotten this man is the master of whispers? The second most-powerful person in the realm? Surpassed only by the Queen Regent Daenerys, whom Jon was also sleeping with?

Is he out of his mind?

Jon feels the urge to bolt out the door into the icy wastes of the North, and never return to Winterfort again.

“But I won’t,” says Tyrion now.

“Why not?”

“Because,” says Tyrion. “There are some tales too unbelievable to be told.”

And with that, he comes around to face Jon—Jon’s cheeks burn furiously, Tyrion must be able to see through him clear as day now. With two fingers under Jon’s chin, Tyrion pulls the other man closer, down to his own level.

And kisses him, fast and light.

A mere peck really.

But it is enough to make Jon’s head spin.

“Have an excellent day,” says the Imp.

With a slight flourish, he takes his leave, the door swinging shut loudly behind him.

Alone again, Jon buries his face in his hands, and groans. 

 


End file.
